Avarice Blacksteel

Those Made Wolf's Head

The scattered villages dwindled to be replaced by charred ruins, or the squalid residences of the sub human ones as the two men pressed further north into the dune country. There were no eager audiences here to grace with his songs or stories and Jhary found the further they ventured into these territories the more nervous he felt, even in the capable presence of his unwitting, fierce protector.

That evening over the last of their rations Jhary was most discomforted to see Aran shedding the majority of his large quantities of gold and secreting them in his bag. He knew Aran well enough to know he would not do this without good reason. He had also noticed the warrior now carried his sword by his side ready always to be drawn swiftly, even if the heavy weapon was unwieldy and repeatedly slapped his calf as he walked.

The slight man followed suit. He had no real valuables to hide but he did bring forth from the bundles on his mule a light, sharp rapier. Aran did not miss the appearance of the weapon, watching his companion lay it next to his bed roll. So mused Aran this little, merry man of song had been armed all this time.

“Can you use that over sized knife?” Aran said smugly, a rare grin lighting his usually stern visage.

“It’s not a knife, it's a rapier.” Jhary corrected, adding. “I sure can, well enough. Though I’m not sure it would do any good against your sword.” He chuckled somewhat uneasily. “It’s a weapon that relies on speed my friend, not brute power.”

“Well, lets hope you never have to use it.” Aran’s words had a formidable tone to them as he turned over, positioning himself that he might sleep covered in his cape. Jhary shivered, and it was not because of the cold, as he too bedded down for the night by the dying fire. Questioning his sanity for following this man so far from his comfort zone.


The following morning the two men broke camp in silence, the wind was on the rise portending a miserable day of cold and stinging sand ahead. However there was little option but to continue as there was no shelter here or anywhere nearby. The usually ebullient bard was silent as he packed his scant belongings on his patient mule this day, and Aran did not offer any words either as he rubbed his gelding’s ailing foreleg in a fruitless attempt to wish the horse to mend.

The only saving grace was at least the wind was to their backs, but progress was slow in these conditions the visibility being no more than a few feet in any direction. Aran pulled his furred hood over his head limiting his vision, something he was always most loathe to do in this dangerous place, but it was all he could do to relieve his eyes of the worst of the flying sand.

As they walked Jhary found his hand straying to the comfort of his rapier, it had been a very long time since he had had the cause, or motivation to use it. He preferred to make music and love as opposed to any kind of aggressive act; part of him wanted to turn about and go back to the familiar villages and towns he had always plied his trade in. To be adored by the women and girls, hear the laughter of the children, and feel the camaraderie of the menfolk as he sat drinking with them late into the night, for no one refused a bard. Yet he felt compelled to follow this man on his quest to hell knows where? To locate some mysterious woman he knew very little about.

Jhary had to admit he liked Aran, even with his taciturn manner and his brash nature there was something refreshing and honest about his companion that drew him; but mostly he guessed in the time he had traveled with this warrior he had felt indisputably safe, something he had never felt before in all his long solo wanderings.

Yes, even the affable Jhary could fight if hard pressed, but smallness of stature made him a tempting target, for he did not exude the danger his companion did. At night the bard slept well, confident his wild compatriot would hear any approach and deal with intruders easily.

Perhaps these reasons were selfish reasons Jhary ruminated, but in this violent day and age it was indeed every man for himself and he could see no better way. The bard had nowhere definite to be and as long as his companion did not take affront to his company, Jhary Brannon was along for the ride.

Late in the day the dune country dwindled, the endless rolling sands slowly giving way to small undulating hills and jutting rocky promontories that rose through the blanket of dust and wildly driven sand. Their ageless windswept shapes loomed like fantastic creatures on all sides, menacing, warning of danger. The standing stones were interspersed by the last vestige of low stunted trees, long ago divested of their leaves, their twisted, tortured branches brittle and dead like driftwood.

Jhary pushed on keeping sight of Aran’s back, hoping this man who seemed as one with the elements knew where he was headed, and some form of shelter was in sight. The wind was howling and the usually talkative man did not even have the chance to utter a questioning remark, instead spending the time in uncomfortable quietude, and reflection.

The smaller stone monoliths transformed into undulating valleys of displaced rock, broken, and sharp, treacherous in places; especially for Aran’s lame horse, the sure footed mule fared much better. There was little sand here just the remnants of long ago volcanic activity and bald rock, still bravely bearing the occasional evidence of plant life long dead from the cold.

Jhary could reason where the warrior was leading them, for this was the entrance a large sheltered valley. The bard was relieved to be out of the worst of the wind, even if the ground underfoot was far from easy to navigate. It was then Aran’s gelding fell without warning, hard, his lame leg lodged in-between the sharp stones like the teeth of a dragon.

The horse squealed and struggled to stand, his torn leg bloodied and raw, the white foam of the animal’s distress and sweat flecked its black coat. Aran steadied the animal, but he was already shaking his head and his face was grave, and for once Jhary had nothing to say.

Aran managed to persuade his injured mount into the small sheltered clearing just beyond the jagged stone impasse, but the noble beast could no longer put even the slightest pressure on its torn leg. Jhary just stood watching his companion unsaddle the beast pausing to stroke the horse’s white blazed forehead and muzzle one last time.

Aran drew his sword, this was the first time Jhary had witnessed the big man use it. The heavy, deadly, weapon somehow sat solidly in his hands and he swung it upward effortlessly in an arc, severing the horse’s jugular and carotid artery. Blood sprayed and the animal crumpled to the ground issuing one last inhuman groan. Jhary looked away.

The mood that evening was subdued, Aran who wasted nothing and was never overly sentimental took the opportunity to eat his fill of the horse meat. Jhary however found he could not partake of the meal, and ate only a little of the last of the stale bread he had in his saddle bags. The fire burned brightly one moment, and guttered the next in the strong gusts, fortunately there was no shortage of long dead, dry, wood to feed it with.

The frozen wind still raced fiercely above, whipping between the rocks that stood on the crown of the valley. Occasionally small stones displaced by the wind from above would tumble down the valley’s deep sides, crashing and echoing on their downward fall. Aran would grasp the pommel of his sword and listen intently, and Jhary’s heart would race in his chest. Trouble always made him feel faint hearted.

The musician preferred conversation in moments of uncertainty and decided to try to engage his often wordless companion in some kind of dialogue. Even small talk was preferable to silence.

“So what’s out here?” Jhary questioned, part of him wanted to know, yet part of him dreaded knowing.

“Not much.” Aran offered. “Mostly wasteland, a few water holes if you know where to find them. This valley.” He pointed up the rocky tunnel. “Heads directly north, runs past a couple of large settlements and close to where my people live.”

“So you know exactly where we are at then?” Jhary sounded relieved.

Aran nodded. “More or less, though I have never traveled this valley this far south.”

“Oh...” Jhary took a sip from the water bottle, washing the dust from his dry throat. “So are you going back to your people?” Trying to imagine what they might be like, fierce; judging from the little he knew of this man who sat before him gnawing on the horse flesh.

Aran did not answer, instead just slowly shaking his shaggy golden head. “Why not?” Jhary pressed, even though he could see the sadness in the large man’s proud features. Aran sat for a time staring into the fire, hand propped under his chin, seemingly very far away. Jhary did not think the man would choose to answer him, and was taken aback when he did, finally.

“I cannot.......... I am exiled.” The words came hesitantly, painfully. “Until I find the woman I told you of, I can never return.”

Jhary could hear the strain in his companion’s voice. However he was most reluctant to not let the silence take hold again this evening, he needed to talk even if his need was a selfish one. He pressed the subject further even though he sensed the warrior did not wish to elaborate.

“Why is she so important? Was she someone’s wife?” Jhary was easily imagining the scenario, he could see this wild man stealing someone’s woman and the discord that would most certainly follow.

“No.” Was all Aran said, his tone flat and final, looking directly at him green eyes wild, and Jhary did not mistake the anger in them. Nor the meaningful way the golden giant of a man placed his hand on the leather wrapped pommel of his sword. The bard sighed and unfurled his bed roll, he was weary but not content to sleep. However it was probably best he did.

By morning the wind had died down somewhat, but not completely. Jhary was awake very early but most reluctant to climb from his warm bed roll. It always amazed him to see Aran soundly asleep on the cold ground with only the fur cape for cover, and saddle for a pillow; the man was far tougher than he.

Too restless to remain sleeping or even pretending to do so, Jhary spent the early dawn hours rekindling the fire and trimming his goatee which he took particular effort to keep neat. Jhary was a stickler for his appearance even with the lack of amenities. First and foremost he was a showman and well aware physical attractiveness, combined with his quick wit and skill, all played an integral part in his trade. He combed back his shoulder length hair and tied it neatly in a short ponytail.

Aran slumbered on and the bard was not going to be the one to wake him, busying himself repacking his belongings onto the back of his mule. Aran took his time to rise, there was little to organize, the warrior had collected almost nothing since his banishment some weeks before. With the demise of his horse he had less than ever to call his own. The saddle was heavy and although it was of considerable value Aran decided to leave it behind, for now at least his riding days were over.

After the disastrous conversation of last evening Jhary felt silence today would be prudent, which was most unlike him. As he marched doggedly after the warrior picking his way between the ragged rocks, rising up at all angles, sharp and treacherous. His mule trailing behind. The bard found he was reliving the unwanted vision of Aran so effortlessly dispatching his horse. One neat stroke was all it took, the man did not pause, or show pity, and he was trying to imagine such a man turning on him?

He shivered, again recalling the way his companion of the road had looked at him last night. Was it a bluff, designed merely for show? To encourage him to desist, or could Aran have simply murdered him, leaving him without a care? Somehow Jhary already knew the answer, and he was no longer sure he had made the right decision following this fierce man.

The valley continued to narrow until it was no more than a steep sided tunnel sundered through the red rock. It was barely wide enough in places for Jhary’s mule to squeeze by, almost stripping the animal of its burden.

Aran had never traversed this southerly section of the impasse before and he went slowly, hesitantly, stopping often to listen and look before continuing onward. All of this made Jhary even more nervous, the usually confident warrior before him behaving like some hunted animal at every twist and turn.

The tight passageway opened out into a larger clearing of three hundred feet or so before it narrowed again on the other side, but of most importance in its centre was a small clear body of water; run off from above. The sides were steep and sheer, some hundred and fifty feet high, stunted underbrush clung tenaciously in the crevasses between the hard stone torn by the strong winds.

Aran crouched examining the ground, Jhary stood just behind him, his mule’s errant ears pricked forward scenting the water, the animals large head pulling against his halter desiring to move forward.

Jhary was about to speak but Aran silenced him with an outstretched hand, drawing his sword. The blue black steel making an audible rasp over the oiled leather scabbard. Somewhere from high above a lone pebble dropped from the heights and splashed into the clear, still pool. The warrior stood there long moments sword partially drawn, pausing like the hunted wolf who must approach carefully lest a trap be set.

Finally satisfied by signs Jhary could not detect, Aran sheathed his sword and pressed forward to the life giving water. It was fresh, clean, and cold, almost frozen. The two travelers dropped to their knees, Aran drinking on his belly directly from the pool, Jhary kneeling, plunging his hands into the frigid water and cupping it that he might drink in a slightly more civilized fashion. The mule drank as well taking long deep draughts.

“How did you know this was here?” Jhary found the courage to whisper after he had sated his burning thirst.
“I didn't.” Aran replied, taking a final drink and standing upright, still scanning the clearing for danger.

Jhary was about to reply when he saw Aran turn with cat like swiftness, the mule’s head flew up from the body of water, the usually placid animal jumped sliding on the half frozen stone.

“Behind me!” Aran shouted going into battle mode, weapon drawn. Jhary ran to the huge man’s back drawing his own rapier, his heart pounding as he realized running was not going to be an option for him. They were already all but surrounded by a group of desperate, ragged men, and above he could see archers poised on the cliffs arrows drawn. The man of music and song closed his eyes and prepared for his last.

Aran quick to assess any situation no matter what the odds saw the archers too, slapping the frightened mule on the rump with the flat of his sword sending it careening into the tight knot of men who sought to surround them. The distraction bought him the precious time they needed.

Jhary felt the warrior’s large hand grab the nape of his shirt, wrenching him sharply backwards beneath a small overhang, and conveniently out of the archers sights. Not a moment too soon as the ground where they had stood just moments before was peppered with arrow shafts, some of the errant missiles bringing down their own.

The remaining knot of men advanced, there were many, possibly twenty or more. Most of them older men, scarred by war, covered in the filth of the desert, and a product of a desperate order. Armed only with an assortment of knives, machetes and the occasional sword.

Aran had fought many men like these before in his time in Bennett’s clan, he was a contrast to them, young, vital, and clean limbed, also better at his craft. “Keep your back to the wall and stay close.” Aran advised. Jhary looked at him blankly and could hardly believe the relish he detected in the warriors eyes, his own sweating hand white knuckled on his sword pommel.

Aran’s green eyes looked levelly at the rag tag band of outlaws who approached him as he let his cape which would hinder his movement fall to the earth, Blacksteel firmly clasped in one hand. Jhary saw him draw a deep breath and take the sword in both hands, perhaps something akin to a warriors final prayer.

The advancing line of men seemed to pause as they sighted the great blade, some of them even exchanged glances. Aran did not wait and leapt forth clipping the first row of men with the tip of the savage weapon. Some fell blood spurting, thrashing on the earth, screaming incoherent curses or prayers, some retreated.

Aran seemingly indiscriminate in his attacks, seeking any flesh in the circle of the great sword’s reach. Jhary finding the nerve for the occasional thrusting parry in the wall of men who were intent on taking their possessions, and their lives.

The one sided skirmish was short lived, a loud retort rang out and the shabby wall of men fell away to reveal a short but startlingly muscular man standing behind his force with a shot gun which was now aimed squarely at Aran’s chest. His ranks of archers had now joined him as well, missiles aimed likewise.

This distinctive man was almost dwarven in stature, but powerfully built, his arms resembled the branches of tightly knotted trees. He had a crown of thick black hair, the top of it pulled back in a ponytail to keep it from tumbling in to his eyes, and a great full black beard reaching to his belly. Like Aran he wore bold golden earrings in both ears, and many large rings encircled his thick fingers as he gripped the ornate gun stock, his finger caressing the trigger.

“Now what do we have ere?” He questioned in a powerful voice.

Aran did not lower his sword its tip dripping gore, nor did he move. Jhary looked to him anxiously.

“They will kill us for sure.” He whispered.

“It's obvious I have met a man of superior fighting skill? T’would be a pity to waste him. What about you lower your arms, and I’ll admit my mistake?”

Aran was unsure how to proceed, but he knew he was in no position not to agree to the terms that this diminutive, yet charismatic leader had set. Noting the tall white headed archer close by who seemed ready to let his arrow fly on a hair’s trigger.

Jhary slowly sheathed his sword, he wanted no more trouble than they were already in and he was mentally willing Aran to do the same. Still the blond warrior did not rescind his ground or his weapon. Jhary wanted to cry, but bending Aran to his will was as futile as trying to bend stone.

“My name is Bryn Frazer.” The grizzled leader continued lowering his gun and signaling his men to stand down, and his archers too. “You have my word that neither me nor my men shall harm you if you sheathe your weapon, warrior.”

Reluctantly Aran slid Blacksteel into its nondesrcript sheath, and with this act the tension abated. The barrel chested little man strode towards him, as though he was greeting an old friend. “Bryn Frazer, leader of this band of outcasts, and you?”
“Aran Sorensen, mercenary.” Delivered in a tone that was without any trace of feeling.

Jhary could tell his companion was not convinced, yet, that this man’s intentions were benign. Aran was playing the game nonetheless. Bryn arched his bushy black eyebrow at Aran’s proclamation, then turned to Jhary who could smell the offending rankness of the unwashed man. He had to concentrate to bring himself to reply.

“Jhary Brannon, story teller and bard.” At this announcement Bryn roared with a belly laugh that echoed off the cavernous canyon. The laugh was infectious and his men, even some of those injured followed suit.

“Well, life’s been a might tough of late. I’m sure we are gonna be needin some of that too!” With that he turned beckoning the two travelers to follow him and his men towards the far end of the canyon.

Jhary wanted to first discuss the merit of this with Aran, but the warrior had already gathered up his cape and was some steps away shoulder to shoulder with the man who just moments before had seemed set on killing them both.

He was pulled from his indecision by the sight of Bryn’s men unloading his precious belongings from his trusty mule. Jhary hurried toward them snatching at his precious guitar case, the musician determined even if he lost all else he was not going to lose his beloved instrument. He had little option but to follow these ragged, dirty men who now possessed nearly everything he owned.

Bryn and his followers inhabited the various caves that dotted the valley’s upper slopes, they drew their daily ration of water from the pool in the canyon which blessedly had not dried up as yet, nor had frozen over. They possessed no horses or livestock of any kind and their stores were very minimal, housed in the rear of the caves they called home. In some ways Aran observed they led a similar life to the one he had in Bennett’s clan. However they had far fewer luxuries at their disposal, and that included weapons and ammunition.

Aran knew Bryn would be a man of his word, he could sense it, but more importantly he understood the warrior code, just like all the men here. Friends fell, and mistakes were sometimes made. Just like the one Bryn and his men had made this day thinking two lone travelers would be easy pickings. Bryn’s error had cost five lives, and possibly two more, but none bore Aran or Jhary any malice. Instead they were greeted with open arms and all the hospitality Bryn and his people could offer.

The two men were ushered forward into one of the largest of the caves to sit by the fire, roasted meat was brought and water which was drunk from a communal bowl. It was obvious to Aran life was simple here and there was little more to hope for than the absolute basics. All Bryn’s people crowded about the fireside, Aran scanned the sea of desperate, dirty, faces, all fighting men, he could only see two women who seemed very intent on him, and no children at all.

“So what brings ye this way?” Bryn questioned offering his guests the first of the meat. Aran took the choicest piece stabbing at it with the end of his poignard, biting into it and chewing for long moments before he chose to speak. He was boldly eyeing the two women who were making no effort to disguise their interest in him either.

Jhary took a lesser piece feeling most uncomfortable at his companions slowness to answer, and his open flirtations with women who looked like they would give one the clap.

“Well, my friend here as you know is a bard, and we were merely passing through. The only reason we entered your valley was to shelter from the dust and wind.”
“I see.” Said Bryn, noting Aran’s interest in the two women of his camp. “So do you have people, or belong to a settlement perhaps somewhere near by?”

Aran paused in his chewing reluctant to answer straight away. “No, any settlement nearby would kill me on sight.” He chuckled sardonically.
Bryn looked at him appraisingly. “You and me both.” He grinned. Jhary sat unsure, had Aran told him the truth yesterday evening about being exiled? The man’s pain had seemed real enough to him, surely this basic warrior was nowhere near as good at telling stories as he was?

“Yes,” Bryn continued. “That damn Wolf Lord and his accursed armies, so you know them as well? Aran ran his fingers down the livid scar that still lined the inside of his sword arm.
“Yes, I know them well enough.”

“A few short months ago most of us had homes, families, and lives!” The grizzled man spat into the fire at his memories. “Until his armies came. They took it all they did. Village after village, burning, looting, and destroying. All you see here now is what is left, just us scant few hardy souls.”

Aran did not reply. Knowing nothing he could say would be appropriate, he just nodded knowingly and let the man continue. “So we are all hunted, made wolf's head to be shot like animals on sight. To live we must adopt the ways of bandits and outcasts. It's been nare easy, but anyway back to you. You can fight well, or should I say exceptionally well. Tell me, who taught ye?”

Jhary ever sensitive to other’s moods, and it paid to be so in his line of work, knew Bryn had struck a sore spot in his companion. Aran looked somewhere beyond the sea of expectant faces his eyes hard. “My brother.” Was all he said.

“Well, be damned he taught you well, never seen any man fight like you and certainly never seen anyone that could hold a sword like that. You mind if I see it?”

Aran obliged pulling the length of his blade from the dull brown scabbard, laying it across his knees that all might see it clearly. There was a collective gasp as he laid out the magnificent weapon, its significance was not lost on even these downtrodden people, and for the first time Jhary Brannon story teller, and musical extraordinaire took a back seat to a mercenary and his pretty blade.

From that point Bryn introduced all his men by name, there were many and Aran did not recall their names in the majority. Each eager desperate face looked much like the next one to him. Though Bryn’s second in command the tall angular, snow headed archer did stand out. Tobias was his name.

Even the two women were introduced to him. They were merely as Bryn put it camp followers, belonging to no man. There were no slaves here in this camp everyone was equal.

First was Anna a bold outspoken woman in her late thirties, her hair was neither blonde or mousy but a mix of the two, she was lewd and suggestive and her teeth were crooked. The years had not been kind to her, though Aran had deduced she had never been a raving beauty. Still she was willing and Aran was interested.

Then there was Chi, she was Asian and very quiet. She had been beautiful once, exotic, dark haired and dark eyed, her middle aged body still keeping the proportions of a little girl and Aran thought of Maya. She greeted him reservedly her head barely level with his chest, but she was hard. Aran could see it plainly and it was not alluring to him.

After the introductions were complete and all had had their piece of the magnificent warrior and his great sword, the attention finally turned to the bard. All wanted to hear his music and Jhary took his twelve string from its case and delighted all with his renditions of many popular songs from a bygone age. Even Chi who never smiled lost herself in the music.

Bryn watched his people enjoy the simple long forgotten pleasures of music and laughter. His gnarled arms resting on either knee and a smile on his face. Aran sat next to him idly picking at the remainder of the meat on the large wooden platter. “So tell me if you're on your own why don’t ye stay? We can always use a fighting man like yer self. We don’t have much but it sure beats alone time in the desert.”

The sincere words uttered to Aran were a persuasive argument. Of recent days he had seriously begun to believe that his hunt for the woman was in vain. In the dark as he lay down to sleep every night he fretted he would never belong again, something that worried at him without remorse. He could not imagine a life of no companionship, ever alone and outcast.

Aran sighed and the words tumbled forth almost before he was even ready to say them.
“I just might do that.”
Bryn laughed his hearty laugh, and slapped Aran on the back. “Yer one of us now, no hard feelins,” and Aran felt as though he had come home.


Aran woke the next morning to Jhary standing over him arms crossed, head to one side. Anna’s head resting on his broad chest, still blissfully sleeping. “You didn't?” Was all Jhary could say, disgust creeping into his voice. Aran just stretched nonchalantly pushing the dreaming woman off him and pulling on his half shed clothing.

“What of it?” Aran answered.

“Well,...” Jhary found he did not have the courage to finish his sentence. Aran walked toward the mouth of the cave. The day was starkly calm. From the top of the high valley he could see for miles east, he could even make out the broad sluggish river that fed Stephan’s farming settlement as it meandered endlessly through the plains.

“Well, what?” Aran goaded.

“She’s...” Jhary turned away.

“She’s what?” Aran pressed him, enjoying his difficulty.

“Dirty.” Was all Jhary said. Aran laughed softly still staring at the vista below, hand on his stubbled chin.

“None of us live forever.”

“I guess, but still...” Jhary answered, clearing his throat trying to sound dignified even if the subject was not. “I just wanna say thanks for yesterday, you saved my ass.” Aran did not look at him, still occupied with the vistas of a far reaching world which he could observe from here. He just nodded slightly in acceptance of Jhary’s thank you.

“Hey you gorgeous! I got sum thin for ya.” Anna called seductively from her bed. Exposing her nakedness for Jhary’s pleasure. The bard had said his piece, and had seen more than enough, mumbling his excuses and leaving as swiftly has he could. Aran laughing in his wake.



In the days to follow Aran settled well into the life of Bryn’s camp. The men respected his prowess holding no grudges, even those he had maimed. They were all exuberant to have one more capable warrior in their midst. Jhary however used to a much better standard of living and the attentions of inquisitive children, and pretty girls, did not find his companion’s dalliance in this place at all amusing.

Outwardly he played the fool laughing and jesting telling his outrageous stories and singing his songs. However on the rare occasion he could find Aran alone he would always prompt the obdurate man, asking him when he planned to leave.

Aran did not have the heart to tell this fun loving man he did not plan to any time soon. He found he began to avoid the bard, and rarely let the man catch him alone. Life was basic, but Aran was enjoying his acceptance after so long alone in the wastes. He had feared he would never have this brotherhood again.

These men were not his original clan, or his brother. However they went a long way towards filling that void. He became as they were, dirty, simple, and unshaven, much to Jhary’s disgust; the bard finally reaching the conclusion that he would have to leave alone. Even worse, navigate unknown territory and go back to whence he came.


It was a fine clear, windless morning, the endless cloud still adorned the sky but it was as good a day as any to depart. Jhary had been here way too long, already he had lost count of the days. Unable to carry all his belongings himself he elected to only take the most important items, his rapier, bed roll, a few scant supplies, a water bottle, and his guitar in its case. It was a long steep descent into the canyon, Jhary was afraid to travel in this place alone. Personally he could not stay, and did not understand how Aran could either when a far better life presented itself south of here.

Finally he made the canyon stopping to fill his canteen for later use. He called for his mule, but the beast was nowhere in sight. There was food and water here so Jhary was perplexed as to why the animal would have chosen to wander away.

He cast about the large clearing his eyes coming to rest on a pile of recently stripped bones still somewhat raw and bloody, and as he stared at them he came to the awful realization he was looking at all that was left of his mule. At first he thought of predators, but in reality what was large enough to bring down such a large animal?

Then it occurred to him, his mule had been slaughtered and eaten, not by a pack of wild dogs but by the human inhabitants of this place. “NOOOOOO!” He screamed, his voice echoing off the rocky cliff faces. He dropped his belongings and tore at his hair in an unbridled display of anger and frustration.

Aran watched him from the other side of the valley. Jhary lived in a world that was prettier than his, where some niceties could yet remain. He could see the man’s pain, but as far as he was concerned the life of a mule was not more important than those who lived above. He left Jhary’s anger run it course before approaching him, he was very close before the bard even registered his presence there.

“YOU ASS!” Jhary screamed. Pulling his raper. “YOU FUCKIN BASTARD!” The man’s voice was hoarse, laden with betrayal. He slashed at Aran, it was more a blind move than a planned one, and went nowhere near doing Aran any harm.

Still Jhary screamed at him, mostly incoherent phrases and insults flailing wildly with his sword. Aran let the man burn out his disappointment and frustration before rounding on him, easily divesting him of the weapon. It clattered to the stone some distance away skidding into the pond.

Jhary took the action to heart and commenced to assault Aran with his fists. All the young man received for his troubles was a hard slap to the face and found himself lying unceremoniously on the stone, face down. Aran hoisted him skyward holding him firmly by his white cotton shirt, propping him upright against a cold rock.

“Listen here.” He whispered dangerously.” Very close to Jhary’s ear. Something in Aran’s tone pulled the impassioned musician up and he went quiet and ceased his struggles. “Those people are starving, you have seen it out there, there is no game.”

He shook Jhary bumping his head inadvertently against the stone behind him. “You might be able to go where you please and live a charmed life, but my friend, I can’t. You’ve seen it, when we enter a village, you see how they treat me. I don’t belong there I’m an outsider, an outcast. There is nothing there for me, no one wants a killer in their midst. They only accept me because of you!”

Jhary looked at the warrior taking in his earnest face and heartfelt words and he realized the big man was telling him the truth. Aran felt the tenseness go out of the little man and he let go of his shirt. “You may not think so but they are people too.” Came Aran’s parting words as he walked away leaving Jhary on the cold unfeeling stone.